Mine Alone to Hate
by thelast.thingido
Summary: This thing we do—this self-hating act of pain and revenge—it's not for others to know about. She can play mother to Emma, and play princess to his Prince Charming, but what we do is the thing that silently eats away at her insides. The knowledge that deep down, she's mine.
1. Intimacy of Destruction

This thing we do—this self-hating act of pain and revenge—it's not for others to know about. She can play mother to Emma, and play princess to his Prince Charming, but what we do is the thing that silently eats away at her insides. The knowledge that deep down, she's mine.

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Rating: Mature

Pairing: Regina/Mary – Evil Queen/Snow White

AN: I started writing this version of Snow Queen from Regina's POV, and I got a bit carried away with it. All that pain and hate, with a touch of insanity—it's enticing. :) So this is going to be multi-chaptered, and it takes place in Storybrooke, after the curse is broken. It's more of just scenes of interaction between Regina and Mary, so it doesn't focus on the season 2 plot. I hope you like it. I'd love to hear your feedback, so hit me up.

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Intimacy of Destruction

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This isn't love.

I know what it is. It's something more powerful than that. It's hate. Because I hate her, more than anything in this world or the next. I would stop at nothing to destroy her. I can't leave her, I can't kill her, I can't live without her.

I can't even remember if I loved Daniel as much as I hate Snow White.

And someone more sane than I would see the fault in that, but I can't give her up. She's mine. Mine to hurt and mine alone to hate.

Because no one hates her. They all see her as something good and pure, but I know better. I've always known she wasn't good, only skilled at fooling others. With bright eyes, and a brighter smile, she could hide everything behind her good intentions.

But she lies, and she deceives, and I've seen her darkness for a very long time. I'm the only one who sees it, and there's an intimacy in that, one of shared anger and regret. A romance of heartache and deception.

I used to wonder how I could spend twenty eight years without needing her, without wanting the infliction of pain that I used to cause her—the kind that was so specific to the two of us. It wasn't until the curse was broken that I realized that it was her memories I wanted to torment. Because now she looks at me and she **remembers**. She sees what I know about her, and she can't stand it. It makes her sick and broken, and I absolutely love it.

I love the way tears swell in her eyes when my hands run down the curve of her hips. My body fits against hers like it never left, pinning her to the wall of my office.

"Miss me?" I whisper, my voice darkening. I keep my face close to hers, watching every pained expression that crosses it. Then my hand slides quick and easy up her leg and under her skirt, making a path I know well. She closes her eyes tight, while weakly trying to grab my forearm before it reaches the abundance of wet heat that I eventually find. "Oh, yes dear. It seems you did."

And it doesn't take long, not nearly as long as it should for such an innocent girl, for her face to soften slightly at my skilled ministrations, her hips pushing into my hand when I brush against her clit just so. I know her. Everything there is to know, and how her body reacts to my touch is something I'll never forget. Apparently, neither will she.

Her eyes are still closed though, so my free hand grabs the back of her neck roughly.

"Look at me." I order, and she obeys, because it's instinct. It's the blood in her veins, it's the darkness in her heart that has my name written all over it, just as hers is written on mine. "I want you to know that it's **me** doing this to you." There's a gasp that escapes her lips as I push two fingers inside her. "I'm the one inside you. I was always **here**." A slight bend at the knuckles as I pull out, and she's gripping at my shoulders. "And the ache that you could never name," My words are getting lower and faster, my head swimming from this power I have over her, and all the semblance of control and order I try to maintain on the surface comes cracking away. "It wasn't for **him**. It was for this." Her head lightly falls against the wall, tense and frustrated at my slow pace. "It was for me."

She doesn't take her eyes off me, taking all the abuse my words give, just like the good martyr she is. But I know better. Because her eyes are hooded and her hips are practically thrusting against my hand, and that's not fear that's making her so easy to please.

It's never fear.

After a beat of silence, I see her lick her lips. I knew it.

I crash against her, kissing her with a fierce hatred, teeth banging and tongues fighting. When she moans into my mouth at the contact, my body reacts to it with an intensity that is almost embarrassing.

I take her hard and rough, and in a way that David never would. Because she deserves it, and I want her to suffer, to die, I want her crawling off the walls and screaming out **my** name. Not his. Like it used to be, and after everything she's done to me and everything she's done with me, she can't just run off and have her happily ever after. We're bound and tied together in this misery that I will not share alone. I never want her to leave, keeping that stained memory tight within my soul, and—**dammit** I had her first.

My free hand starts pulling and tearing at her blouse, fingers burning along her hot skin. I'm rushed and desperate, and it shows, the decades that have passed don't allow me to hold onto the control I used to own so well when we were like this.

But it makes my skin crawl just being this close to her, makes my hatred burn and grow, and all I want is for her to leave. To go and never come back. But I can't stop **hurting** her. I can't **stop**.

…

But it's okay.

She breaks the kiss, and after a few labored breaths, she whispers 'more', and my face could break in two, with how wide my smile is right now.

Because she can't stop either.

So, I give her more. I push harder and rub faster, her nails digging into my back, and my face is twisted up in self-satisfaction because of this power I have over her. I do this. I can make her snow white skin turn red just by a smirk and a well-placed innuendo. I can make her arch off the wall and cry out. I make her hate herself every time she begs just to come.

"Please…" The sound barely comes out, but I see her lips mouth the word. I slow the movement of my hand, and she whimpers.

"What was that, dear?" I ask innocently, as if she's not squirming against me, wet and wanting.

Tears sting her eyes, and my smile turns evil.

"Please." She says again, louder this time. My thumb pushes quickly against a bundle of nerves that causes her hips to jerk against my hand.

"Please, what?" Mary doesn't respond, just looks away and bites her lip. So stubborn—she always has been. Even when this was new and she was young and I was Queen, she held onto that sliver of tenacious defiance. I hate her for it, but I'll admit; it does make it worth it when I finally get her to crack.

My fingers push deeper inside her, as deep as they can go, and then stay perfectly still aside from a slight flexing of my knuckles. She sucks in a deep breath at the sensation, the palm of my hand pushes down, replacing my thumb, and as her hips start to push against it, my free hand hold them still against the wall.

"Say it." I snap at her, my eyes growing darker by the passing seconds.

"God—please. Please, I need it. I need you." So broken when she says it, all that control she holds onto slipping away from her as well, leaving just us—and **this—**and it makes it almost worth it. All the pain she's caused, all the failed attempts at destruction—these small moments of begging and pleading, and her nails in my back, and those watered eyes full of shame and regret makes me almost forget—**almost**—if only for a moment. For a moment this destruction we bring on ourselves is the only thing I need.

"How much?" My voice sounds far away, my head not becoming heavy enough to care though, because this could be a dream. But when she answers, it's clear and real, and the loudest thing I've ever heard.

"More than anything."

Our lips meet again, as my hand continues its movements, fast and faster, and I feel fingers scorching their way through my hair as she wraps her arms around my neck. It brings us closer, closer than the two of us should ever be. Closer than I ever want to be, and I swore I was done—the last was the last, because there are consequences to falling so deeply into this madness with someone like Snow White. But damned if I care right now, because madness has always been inside me, and twenty eight years is too long for me to be without it. I wonder briefly if they would even care of my reasons, when this all goes to hell again, and I'm stripped bare—all my actions laid out before me as if there was no rhyme or reason to the things I did. I wonder if they'll lie Snow out before me, and claim corruption and abuse, her green eyes accusing me. I'll laugh at them, because they don't know—they don't know what Snow is capable of, and they have no idea how much worse I could have made it for her—

She breaks the kiss, gasping and arching, so close that I can practically taste it. My free hand trails up her neck, thumb gently stroking her cheek as I marvel at how beautiful she is like this—she's always beautiful, but like this? That's when I see her.

And she would turn me over to them, wait until I'm weaker while she gets stronger, then claim that she wasn't strong enough to stop me. That I forced her. I never forced her. She'd say the words though, because she's a liar and she's devious—she'll cry rape and pain, and poor, poor, Snow White.

Off with my head.

There's a cold feeling that runs down my spine, making my eyes narrow, and my hand holds tighter to her face, making her pay attention.

"I hate you." I whisper full of loathing. I consider other things to say to her—horrible things, knowing she'll have no choice but to take it, along with the fingers that are inside her. But it seems that I don't need to, because said fingers suddenly are getting very hard to move as she tenses and arches off the wall. I smile, wide-eyed and fascinated, as I watch her climax. Her mouth agape in a silent scream, her eyes barely open, but still looking at me.

Right at me. Because it's always been me, just as it's always been her. This contagious decay—this communal desolation—this is ours.

…

Soon enough though, her eyes stray down as the heat from our bodies begin to cool. My hand comes out from under her skirt and roams over the curve of her hip before resting on the wall. I lean there for a moment, waiting for my nerves to calm and my vision to clear. When it does, I look down as well and see her open blouse and chest straining against mine, and her body is rigid against mine. Then I look up to her face, and it looks as though someone has sucked the life out of her, but she meets my eye contact all the same and after my allotted moment, she leans in to kiss me.

I flinch and jerk away before she makes contact, and push off the wall, suddenly disgusted at the sight of her, and disgusted at myself. My shaky stance turns quickly into a confident stride across my office to a mirror, where I precede to fix my crumpled appearance. Mary hovers though, like she always does, like she's waiting for me to say something I never will—or she's waiting for the courage to say what she never can.

I stay silent, and eventually she leaves. My mind doesn't even spin some well-placed insult, or threat of blackmail her way. This thing we do—this self-hating act of pain and revenge—it's not for others to know about. It never has been. She can play mother to Emma, and play princess to his Prince Charming, but what we do is the thing that silently eats away at her insides. The knowledge that deep down, where the feeling of my fingers linger, she's mine.

Mine to hurt, and mine alone to hate.


	2. A Short Trip

A/N: So sorry it took so long to update, personal issues, and I was having a real hard time fleshing this chapter out into what I wanted. It won't be this long for me to update the other chapters though. Please leave comments and let me know what you think. I love hearing from you guys.

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A Short Trip

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She calls me in the middle of the night, and I'm still awake, because sleeping never comes easy for me. I look up from the tumbler of whisky I've been staring into for the past twenty minutes, and grab my phone, my eyes focusing on Mary's number.

After a few too many rings, I answer it, but say nothing as a greeting.

"Regina?" She whispers, most likely trying to keep quiet in a house full of Charming's.

"What do you want?" My voice tries to hold a level of distain, but the alcohol in my system softens it.

"We need to talk." A week has passed since our last 'encounter', and now she suddenly needs to talk? Her reason is weak, but it's probably meant to be.

"I'm at my house. Come in through the back door." I state, monotone before disconnecting the call, but as I toss the phone next to me on the couch, I can't help but smile and down the last of my whiskey. Nerves had gotten the best of me all week, headaches and nausea, the solitude of my mansion makes sounds that used to be dim murmurs in the back of my mind turn into loud voices tearing apart the inside of my brain.

Because I shouldn't have shown weakness towards her, but it's the only way I can get close enough to hurt her. And I've been going back and forth about it all week. Wondering if I should kill her, or just let her be. If we should fall back into place as Evil Queen and Snow White, or if I should just focus on getting Henry back. Because so much has changed, so much cannot be what it was. But then, she looked at me a week ago as if no time had passed between us. We shouldn't be able to fall so easily into each other. So many years, and **dammit**, it should have changed **something**. But she still reacts just the way I remember, I still know just how to make her weak, she still comes to me in the middle of the night—I still let her—I still hate her.

If she would've called any other time, yesterday, earlier this afternoon, I don't know what I would've done. But alcohol has soothed any nerves that would've gotten the best of me, so I'm in front of my living room mirror, fixing my appearance to make it appear that I'm completely in control.

When she finally gets here, she still knocks and I grind my teeth at her inherent politeness. I make my way to the back door none the less, opening it and leaning on the frame as to not let enough room for Mary to come in.

"Why Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard. To what do I owe this late night visit?" My smile is bright and she rolls her eyes.

"Let me in, Regina." Then my smile turns to a smirk at her strong words.

"Giving orders? You know how far you'll get doing that." We stare each other down for a moment, before she blinks and looks away.

"Please." She almost whispers, "Please can I come in?"

That's better.

"Good girl." I say, and back away from the door frame, and as she walks past me, her eyes stay down more out of frustration then submission. I close the door behind her and turn to see her sight on me again, narrowed and suspicious, taking in the black pant suit that I haven't yet bothered changing out of, knowing there was no point if my night would be restless regardless. In turn, I take in her blue blouse and matching skirt that reached down to her calves, as I move a few steps towards her.

I do love her in skirts.

She takes a step back.

"You've been drinking."

I barely stop myself at laughing in her face at her tone, one that holds just enough judgment in it that it makes me want to beat her to death with my bare hands. I do smile though, wide and uncontrolled, and it takes her back a bit. I'm quick to grab her throat and push her the short distance, so that her back is forced against my kitchen island. Mary doesn't feign surprise at the action, because she's used to the sudden violence, already falling back into the place where she always goes with me. Because when it's all said and done, it is a short trip for us.

Her hand does grab my wrist, making sure I still allow air to flow through her lungs, as if I would let this end so quickly. My body pushes against hers, and she flinches as it digs her back into the edge of the marble counter top.

"I'd offer you one, dear," I hiss, my knee wedging between unyielding legs, but it's still enough to make her eyes fall shut for a moment. "But I would hate to have your senses dulled for this."

"I said—…I just wanted to talk." Mary chokes out, and my grip loosens, apparently being tighter than I thought. My face moves closer to hers.

"Oh, ok then." I let go of her neck, keeping my thigh still against her, as my hands grip at the counter behind her, trapping her in. "Let's 'talk'." Mary opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. "Were you thinking about me, is that why you came over?" The tone in my voice takes on a softer air, almost one that a lover would use. "Have you been thinking all week about our little trip down memory lane?" My eyes scan her face, those pursed lips, those narrowed eyes, and the long slope of her neck. "I have." She perks up at that, looking at me expectantly, and my smirk begins to grow. "I've been thinking about how easy you were." My eyes grow darker along with my words, bringing my lips against her ear. "How pathetic it was when you were grinding against my hand." I hear her gasp and her legs give way—just a little, and I reward her by pushing against her just a little harder. "It was just like old times." My throat hums a bit and eyes close at the selective memories that I allow to reach the back of my eyelids. Quickly after I have my darkened sight on her once more, tongue running up the side of her face rough and primal, before practically moaning in her ear; "You even taste the same."

"Stop." She pleads quietly, her face flinching away from me. I ignore her, my lips moving to her neck as my knee pushes into her again, then again, "Did you think about me when he was thrusting between your legs—" She's trying—trying so hard not to move her hips in time with my thigh—trying so hard not to moan, seeing her biting her bottom lip hard out of the corner of my eye. "Imagining it was my fingers—" I push into her again, then again, "tearing you apart?" and again, and then my face is in front of hers, "Did it make you come?"

"I said stop." She pleads, stronger but still broken, her hands pushing against my shoulders lightly, until they bunch up into fists, tangling in my blouse. I pull my leg away from her at that, my hands leaving the counter to run up the length of her tensed arms.

"You want me to stop?" The sincerity in my voice almost sounds real. "You **begged** me, Snow." I hear her sharp intake of air, being called that when we're like this. It has been awhile. "You begged for me to take you, you pleaded for more." My hands reach her wrists and grip fiercely, tearing them away from my shirt and pulling so that her body straightens and is pulled against mine. "I was only doing what you wanted." I say, voice growing angry.

"No—" She swallows and takes a quick moment to glance at my lips. "No, you're twisting things."

I smirk at that. Snow White. The infamous black kettle.

"Then you don't want me?" I ask innocently, not letting go of my grasp on her.

"No." She whimpers, looking at anything but me.

A quiet chuckle escapes my lips, knowing she's said just what I want her to. After a moment of stillness between us, she finally looks at me, eyes full of fear, because she's just realized the same thing.

"Prove it." My whisper hits her ear and it knocks all the air out of her lungs—like a memory that's long since gone, but just a noise, just a scent, brings it back like it was yesterday. Then her lips part to speak, but I muffle the sound with a rough kiss. One that she returns instantly.

She's mine.

I don't waste any more time.

My hands release her, only to grip hard at her hips as I lift her up so she's sitting on the counter, her lips tearing away from me as I bunch her long skirt up around her waist. Lungs are desperately trying to fill with air, but I don't let her go for long, connecting again just to bite down hard on her bottom lip. Mary cries out a little and slides her hips closer to the edge so they connect with mine. I roll into her, and like instinct, her leg wraps around the back of my thigh. My hands move to the buttons of her blouse, almost undoing them all until I give up the tedious task for the exploration of new skin exposed, pulling at her bra and biting back a moan when I feel the sharp point of her breast against my palm. Her lips move to my neck, but I shrug her off, already too aware of how easily she can overwhelm me. I catch her in a kiss again to keep us both grounded.

But I get distracted, hands moving over her breasts and stomach, my mouth moving lower, and taking her nipple in my mouth. When she feels it, she groans and arches into me, making me slightly light headed.

She's strong. Muscles still taught under impossibly soft skin, all that time running from me and hiding in the woods made her stronger than most, and the curse kept her intact. She's stronger than me—strong enough—and she could stop me. She could, but she never does.

My hands move back under her skirt when I pull back up to face her.

"I can't stay long." She gasps in my ear, already complacent with her fate—the one entwined so deeply with mine. Fingers curl around the thin material of her underwear, as I pull them slowly down strong thighs.

"I don't want you to." Once past her knees, I'm quickly ripping them off. "I just want you to beg for me." I'm scorching heat along her thighs as both my hands run up the length, "Can you do that, dear?" While I look at her, I see the submission in her eyes, deep and real, as if this is all she's wanted, to be mine and it makes me want to keep her here forever—just a temporary thought—one that surfaces during moments like this. I could keep her tied to my bed for eternity, feeding off of her pain and fear, and it could be enough.

This could be enough.

My fingers enter her, making her gasp.

But it never is.

So farther down I go, harder I push, and even her pleading isn't enough. I need more. I need her to **hurt**—to feel it—to want for **nothing** else—to have nothing left. I **need** her.

I **hate** her.

It seems like forever, as we stay like this, my fingers drowning, our eyes locked—and that word;

"Please."

Over and over again, just like us, just like insanity. I kiss her as she comes, her hands grabbing onto me as if her life depended on it. Undulating waves rock against my fingers and her mouth taste like sweetness and poison. And what a sight we must be, disheveled and tangled together, her weight against me as she's spread out on the counter top of my kitchen. My clothes wrinkled and skewed, as hers barely cling to her body, our shared breathing and sweat mixing. What a disgustingly lurid sight we must be, but all I see right now—only now—is her long hair spread across velvet sheets—me hovering over her with hands gripping tight at her wrists—her body moving with mine like a secret dance—I see back to a time when this was all we knew, and I was all she wanted. She's so beautiful.

Then there's the moment of still between us. When the only thoughts we can have get replaced by the look in her eyes that she's giving me right now. I run fingers through her short hair and rest my forehead against hers. This is the moment before I shut her out and send her away, because just the thought of asking her to stay is enough to kill me.

Then suddenly,

"Regina—"

My face steels, pulling away from her and cutting her off with a sharp; "We're done." Because nothing she says in the moments after will be anything I want to hear. It's never anything I can stand hearing. It's the unyielding signal of this moment ending, as everything between us grows cold and stale.

So I do what I do, what I always do, what I'm so very good at doing—I hurt her and walk away, leaving her in the kitchen with parting words thrown casually over my shoulder.

"You can let yourself out."


	3. Demons of Violence

A/N: Oh the angst, the long drawn out angst that I love to write so much :).

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Demons of Violence

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It doesn't take as long for the next time that she comes to see me, both of us crash through my bedroom door in the middle of the day, a blur of lips and tongues only breaking briefly for me to tear her shirt up over her head. She pushes me against the wall, and almost as soon as my back hits it, I flip us and keep her pinned against me where she belongs.

My lips trail across her cheek, nipping at her ear gently, before taking residence on her neck.

"This is wrong." She whispers, "So wrong." It sounds as though she's almost saying it to herself, and it also sounds like she's not too upset about the obvious realization.

My teeth run along the tendon in her neck, memories flowing of bruised snow white skin, and with the soft moan Mary gives at the feeling, there's a clenching in my gut that causes me to suck hard at the flesh under my lips.

Just as soon as I do though, she's pushing me away with all that strength she pretends she doesn't have.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is hard and eyes angry, but I'm still too lost in the moment to care.

"Marking you." I say with dark intentions, and make a move to lean into her again.

"No." Her hands stay firm on my shoulders. "You know you can't do that anymore." Because of them. Because of **him**. It makes a rage surface that's easy to feel when it comes to her. I knock her arms off of me, just to grab her and slam her once against the wall.

"Do you think I care if everyone knows what a whore you actually are?" I snap, my voice echoing in the room. She closes her eyes briefly, taking a steady breath, before she looks back at me with a feigned calm, as if to sooth the demons of violence that rips it's way between us. Though, it only ever makes me angrier.

"I know I have much more to lose than you, but the one thing you still need is Henry." She says with a level tone, and my hands grip her arms tighter at the mention of Henry's name. "Do you think you'll have a chance with him if Emma finds out what you're doing?"

My eyes narrow.

"What **we're** doing."

Because it was never just me. The first time—the very first time—I ever looked at her with a cautious immorality, she noticed. When my violent fantasies of strangling her, or running a blade through her chest, changed into something less violent and more depraved, she knew. She must have, because her looks began to linger, my silences started to grow heavy, and I swear—I **swear** on everything I have—that the only reason I kissed her was because I wasn't strong enough to kill her.

Besides, she kissed me back. She was ready for me in ways that no one who was good or pure should be. I lied to her though, while in her bed chambers or in the never ending dark hallways of the castle, I lied so that she would have nothing to tell in a hushed whisper to the king. A lie that sometimes I can delude myself into thinking is truth.

I told her,

"What **we're** doing means nothing." She says, so smug for remembering the words I've said to her so many years ago. I mentally shake myself out of the haze her presence condemns, and sneer at her, ready to shoot back some biting insult, when a thought strikes me.

"I could heal you with magic afterwards."

Mary pauses at that, looking at me with doubt. So ready to give in, but still holding on to her stubborn attributes.

"Will it work?" It's almost a whisper when she says it, and it makes me move my hands up the length of her arms, soothing her defensive stance—breaking down her resolve.

"If it doesn't than tell them whatever you want," I respond flippantly, already mentally plotting out the path of scorches I plan on leaving on her, moving in closer. "That I'm a horrible person, who stole your innocence."

"You are." She says seriously, looking up at me and searching my eyes for something I won't let her see. But it's there, a pressure in my chest at her words that leaves a pain that only she can bring out. I hate her more for that, because as sure as I am, she brings out an uncertainty in me. Perhaps my memories are more faded than I think. Maybe she fought and cried, and the insanity inside me is the only thing I have left. I won't let her see it, though, because it's just a thought—and she's here now—she's mine now.

After a beat, I raise an eyebrow.

"Do you want it or not?" Mary breaks eye contact with me and look down guiltily, making my smirk soon to follow. "Do you want me to mark up and down your body, leaving you bruised and swollen like I used to?" My voice changes to a more natural dialect, one that's darker and one that she remembers well, as my lips brush against her ear. "You want to be punished, don't you? All these dirty little things **I** make you do…" Her breathing is shallow now, practically leaning into my lips, to create more contact. I nip at her earlobe quick before coming back around to face her. She's still keeping her gaze downcast. "Tell me you want it, Snow."

Her breathing is heavy for a long moment.

"I want it." I knew it. There's a want in her that's too familiar, too much like something that's always been there. Then her eyes are on me, dark and deep. "…My Queen." I crash my lips against hers at her response, just so she doesn't see how much it affects me. Because it's been a very long time since she's called me that, and I feel my knees weakening just at the sound of it. God, I hate how I react to her.

But I missed this.

My hand wraps itself in her short hair, holding her steady as I tear my lips away from her, just to move them back down to her neck. I suck hard, no protest this time, raking my teeth along the reddening skin for good measure. And there's such a moan that comes from her throat, like that of a siren's call, seducing me farther down. And I growl, out of appreciation—out of frustration—out of my mind, wrapping my knuckles around the waistband of her jeans, and pulling her away from the wall to spin us and toss her unceremoniously onto the bed.

I'm on top of her in an instant, legs straddling her hips, hands gripping her wrists and pinning her down. It almost looks like it was, aside from glaring differences. My mind pushes it back quickly though, because this isn't about reliving those few memories that I'm not sure are even real. It can't be about that, because then I would be lost.

We're kissing again, as if it's impossible to stop, as if this is the only way we can breathe. My hands move, running nails down her arms, fingers reaching behind her back and undoing her bra before pulling it away from her body. The lips that were conquering her mouth move to decimate other parts of her, biting at her chin, sucking at her collar bone, licking my way down to the peak of her breasts, and all the while she's squirming—eyes shut tight—rocking her hips against mine in a sporadic rhythm—gripping the sheets as if it they were sanity itself. And when my mouth lands on her nipple she whispers, "Harder", and a moan comes from my chest before I have time to stop it.

None the less, I give her what she wants.

I move over her, blackening her body with mine, corrupting her—claiming her. And I think the novelty of this obsession should have worn out by now, or at least dimmed in its velocity. Though it still gives me a feeling of power and control, and those moments come far too few for someone who sought so hard for it. She made sure of it, running and fighting and not just dying like the good girl she pretends to be. She stripped me of my worth back in our world, and her daughter did the same in this one. And Mary tells us all that it was for the good of being good, and all the woodland creatures follow her mindlessly, because what else is there to do when she's here to distract them—like something shiny swinging in front of their face, and that bright light is her disgustingly pure heart. She tells us she was fighting against evil—against **me**, but she wasn't. She was fighting for her kingdom, for power. Because she could have run. She could have gone to any other land and had her happy ending with Charming, but she wanted to fight for her rightful place as Queen. She's more like me then she cares to admit.

And as I suck and bite at the valley between her breasts, I leave a black and darkened bruise where her heart lies—making it match mine.

Then, lower I go, positioning myself between her legs. Over soft curves and hard muscles, faint scars and white skin, down to the waistband of her jeans, all the while her breathing gets heavier. She's having bad thoughts about what I'm going to do to her, and it causes her leg to run up the length of my arm slowly, wanting so badly for me to use my mouth where she needs it most. I know her well.

"Wouldn't it be quaint if they were to find out about us?" I murmur, before raking my teeth against her hip bone.

"Not the word I would use." Mary whimpers, as I raise back up and away from her need. I'm kneeling as my hand deftly works the button of her pants and pulls them off of her, with her grateful help.

"Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as you think, if everyone were to know." There's a casual and airy tone to my voice, and I toss her jeans to the side, allowing them to join the growing pile of her clothes. Then my body comes back down, bringing our faces close. "Perhaps they would just be happy we were getting along." She chuckles humorlessly and in disbelief. I nip playfully at her bottom lip, a soft smile lining mine, and it causes Mary's gaze to grow suspicious at my suddenly light-hearted mood. She knows me well. "Perhaps they wouldn't be disgusted and sickened at the sight of you." Her eyes blink away, trying to cover for their watering, and I maintain my nonchalance. "Perhaps David could even be able to touch you without thinking—" Five nails lightly trace down her body running in the valley between her breasts, goose bumps rising in their wake. "Without knowing that **anything**—" They move down her stomach, "and **everything**—" Trace the elastic band of thin cotton. "He could ever imagine doing with you—" They move past the material quick, just to swipe along her folds and collect the very abundant moisture. "I've already done." The fingers move up to her face, greeted by quickly parting lips, like magnets attracting and rebelling all at the same time, "Over and over again."

I trace my wet fingertips on her red and swollen mouth, with an almost dream-like expression on my face. My tongue is quick to swipe at her bottom lip before crushing her in a kiss, reveling in the taste of her, as she does the same. When my nails make their path back down her body, I use more force, causing red streaks to follow. Mary gasps and pulls away from me.

"You never loved me." Her voice is breathless, but calm. Almost stern. And so very stubborn. I look at her confused for a moment, before understanding her meaning—that's the one thing David does that I never will. My immediate snide sneer shows how very little I care about such things that I'm incapable of.

"Is that why you come here, dear?" I sit up, kneeling between her legs, taking away my body heat as a punishment. "Do you want me to **love** you? The whole world is not enough for you?" My anger is rising as I grab the top of her thighs and pull hard, sliding her down and slamming her hips against mine. The sound of surprise comes squeaking out of her throat. "Do you think spreading your legs for me will make my heart melt the way **you** do around my fingers?" My voice is louder and darker with the passing words, and nails are digging into her hips. She does very good at not flinching at the pain, as I feel the breaking of her skin around my tight grip.

"That's not why I come here." Her voice is just as steady, tone calming, and I think she knows—she **knows** how it just makes my hate for her grow. She uses it to make me lose control, I know she does. Power, control, hate, and more **hate**—and **dammit**, she doesn't get to do this.

"I don't care why you come here." Teeth bared as I practically hiss at her. "All I care about is that you do. And you will, you stupid child—" My hand is around her neck, as my body crashes over hers, lips moving roughly against her ear. "You **will** come for me."

Mary gasps against my ear in return. It causes my mouth to twitch and curve up just a little. Taking away her power—even if it's just a little. I pull and rip her underwear down her legs, my hand quickly replacing what the fabric was hiding. The heat between her thighs has cooled slightly, but it's still there, and it's still drowning. I know that all I have to do is slide down her body and use my mouth on her, and it would be over. She would be worked over so quick, she wouldn't even know what hit her until she was walking home on shaky legs. I won't though, not this time. It's better when she's looking in my eyes, better when the burn inside her is slow and torturous.

It hurts more that way.

And it does look like pain, the way her face twists up as my thumb rubs against a bundle of nerves and fingers move inside her. I don't look down at her, I don't move away to get a view of her body, no matter how much I want to. For the simple fact of wanting to, for the simple fact that it would weaken me just as it always does, so the feeling of heat radiating through my cloths as she arches into me will have to be enough.

I move slow, building up a tension between us as my gaze pierces hers, and it doesn't take long before she's leaning in towards me.

"Do you want a kiss?" I whisper, slight mocking lining my tone.

"Please?"

My mouth opens to deny her, to make her suffer for a little while long—for the rest of her life—but the way she **begs**, doe eyed and submissive, like my own personal punching bag. It's something I find very hard to resist, so I find myself unable to, kissing her fast and hard, as my fingers speed up to keep time. I'm swallowing every noise that comes from her throat, as they get higher and louder.

Once I feel the tightening around my fingers, I break away to look at her, both of us breathless.

"Come for me, Snow White."

Oh, and she does. And it makes me just—**clench** for her. My hips bucking just a bit at the feeling of **her**. Mary's hands go on me for the first time, fingers digging into my back and pulling her against me as the breath freezes in her lungs, and her body tenses around me.

After what seems like eternity, I finally pull my hand away from her, and the loss causes her to whimper, either out of relief or disappointment, I'm not sure which. She holds onto me a moment longer before she does it. This devious little liar,

"My Queen…" Mary murmurs against my cheek, and it's like electricity shooting down my body, and I **feel** it—it makes me be the one to linger this time—and she takes advantage of it, fingers gently running through my hair, kissing me slow and deep. It doesn't take long though, for her pace to annoy me along with everything else about her, so I rip my mouth away and roll off of her.

She tries to catch her breath as I sit up next to her, and I have no choice now, but to look down at her body—it it's frightening, just a little, at how much hesitation it causes me. How much I want to move my hands back over her form and never stop until both of us are dead.

My hand does hover over her stomach, palm open and close to her skin, and she's watching me with an intensity that I can't match. As if she's found a moment of clarity in a lifetime of being constantly lost. That must be nice.

"Could we—"

"Don't talk." I interrupt, voice raspy, and my fingers staying still above her body. I feel the heat cooling off of her and into my skin. "I'm trying to concentrate."

She finally looks along with me as the slightest of a purple haze follows my hand as if it was burning, and I move it slowly across her body—the bruises on her neck, down her chest, over the red crescents I left on her hips—and one by one, every violent strike, every show of dominance, every mark of the beast—

Every single sign of corruption, simply disappears—

Into her pure snow white skin.

As if it means nothing.


	4. Never Done

A/N: I wrote this chapter as an add-on. It wasn't originally part of my outline, but I felt that a slight change in scenery was needed. It's a short one, but the next chapter's almost done, so that should be up in a few days. There's also mention of Swan Queen in this chapter, just for fun. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! I love all the feedback I've been getting.

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Never Done

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"We could stop, you know." She says, even as a whisper, it seems to echo against the bathroom walls of the diner. I don't look up from the sink, as I finish washing the last of her off of my hands. "Just walk away from this, like we did before."

Before. Even then it wasn't as simple as walking away. I had to have a huntsman try to rip her heart out of her chest to get her to leave, and even then—even after everything—we still end up here. She just let me fuck her in a public bathroom, and now she's asking if we can stop. I almost roll my eyes at the thought.

I do look up from the sink, finding her against the wall behind me through the reflection in the mirror.

"Would you prefer going back to me trying to kill you?"

Her eyes are on me just as they always are, but this is one of the times that it just makes an uneasiness settle inside me.

"Yes."

I understand why she would want that. It's simple. It's the way our roles have been defined, that is how the world sees us, and when I'm only trying to kill her, there's no uncertainty. I don't want that though. As it is, death is such an easy escape from our mistakes, so momentary, so painless. Snow and I, we are a lasting punishment.

I look down to grab a paper towel from the rusting dispenser, drying my hands roughly, before tossing it in the trash. Then, my eyes glace back up at her from the cloudy bathroom mirror, before turning and facing her.

"Maybe you're right." I say after a moment, watching her emotionlessly, while I take steps to slowly close the space between us.

Mary tilts her head slightly, eyes confused.

"I am?" Sounding shocked that I would agree with her, and there's something else, something like trepidation and panic lining that stare she has on me. I hold back the smirk that itches on the inside of my lips. There's the part of her that's so much like my own, and that part doesn't want this to end, because it's something we both need. It's pain.

"Maybe we should stop." I say with a tired sigh. "You could have David," My hand waves absently at the empty space of the bathroom. "And I could find someone else—…" A darkness clouds over my eyes that she recognizes instantly. "Perhaps Emma."

I might as well have a knife in her gut again, the way all the air leaves her lungs, and panic grips her face.

"You stay the hell away from her."

I smirk, and try to keep from outright laughing at her. She's so quick to anger, quick to protectiveness, and so—well—**sure**.

"Oh?" I reply in a mocking sort of shock. "Do you think I have a chance?" She does, because she sees the same thing I do when Emma looks at me. A furrowed brow and tight mouth that's meant to give nothing away, but it gives away everything. It's a darkness in her eyes that's so much like her mother's, and it's only there when she looks at me. "She must get that from you."

She could burn straight through me, the way her eyes are glaring such a red, and it's not jealousy that makes her hands grip at my blouse and push me hard against the tiled wall, it's fear. Fear that I'll burrow my way into the blonde the way I did to Mary, and never let go.

But there is a difference that she apparently can't see. I don't hate Emma. Not like I hate her. I don't hate anyone the way I hate her.

There's no fight against her grip on me just yet, only a dark and quiet laugh coming from me, sounding loud in the small space.

"Do you think she'll beg like you, or will she actually make me work for it?" Her grip on me tightens, as if she's contemplating whether she should wrap her hands around my neck and it makes my smile grow.

"If you even look at her twice, I will kill you." Mary replies in all seriousness, clenched jaw and a dark tone. I stone my face at the words, despite my pleasure at seeing her temper flare. In a quick move, she's pushed off of me harshly, my sudden stoicism causing her strength to falter.

I straighten out the wrinkles in my shirt that she caused, sparing a glance toward her.

"I have no doubt dear, because that's what we do, isn't it?" She'll start chasing me once I've stopped chasing her—just as we've always done. A life for a life, and a heart for a heart, but it never clears our slate. It just makes us want more, makes the hunger stronger, a cycle between us that can never end. Not until one of us is dead. But death is such an easy escape from our mistakes.

I wait a moment for her response, but she gives none, her anger dwindling. So, I close the space between us, crashing my lips against hers, my hand gripping the back of her neck, and I'm surprised when she kisses back almost instantly. I wonder if it's just to keep me grounded to her, to keep my body from straying to another, so this pain and **hate** doesn't touch the lives of anyone else. But she doesn't seem to understand that there's no chance of that.

This is all for her.

When we break away from each other, the grip on the back of her neck tightens.

"We can stop, but we're never done." I tell her, dark and serious, and something in her eyes tells me she finally understands.


	5. It Never Ends Well

AN: As promised, I didn't make you wait too long. Thanks to all of you for your feedback. Enjoy.

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It Never Ends Well

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There's heavy breathing—whimpers—moans, and I have her pinned under me on my bed. My nails scrape down her bare stomach, distracted from its task of removing the rest of her clothes. A black bra and underwear stand out in striking contrast to her pale skin, and the darkness striping her body makes me stare for a moment. But I don't get long to revel, because she's kissing me again, fevered, her hands fumbling with the buttons of my blouse, hands running down my chest as she explores newly exposed skin. I allow for it, because the warmth that's surrounding us is starting to suffocate.

She's eager tonight. Determined. I push my thigh between her legs, just to dizzy her thoughts a bit. It works, her hands stopping to pull at the collar of my open shirt, breaking the kiss and holding on as I rock into her hard.

"God, Regina. You're driving me crazy."

"Well, it's only fair." I mumble before my lips find residence on her neck, and she's moaning almost like she's getting paid to.

Sometimes, she doesn't say a word, just lets me do whatever I want and pretends like she hates every minute of it. But I know better, because I know what hate looks like. And sometimes, she's wanton and desperate, almost taking more than I can give her. Sometimes it's a quick fifteen minutes in the middle of the day, pushing against any surface we can find, hiding behind anything convenient. Fingers under her cloths, my breath on her neck, and my hand across her mouth to muffle those noises she can't stop. Sometimes I get to have her for most of the night, her naked and pinned under me—and we talk. We talk about how this is all her fault, and how she **deserves** this, she **wants** this, and both of us hate how much we get off on it.

Sometimes we talk, and it never ends well.

She's eager tonight.

My mouth moves lower to the top of her bra, and Mary's pulling my shirt down and off my shoulders. I tear the clothing away from me, tossing it aside when my movement gets impaired by the pooling material on my wrists. I'm back on her in an instant, lips meeting as my hands move to her breasts, palms pushing and fingers pulling and nails moving under the material to scrape along hardened nipples. She rocks into my thigh, causing me to adjust so that our hips are meeting, the move happening before I think better of it.

But thoughts are hard to come by in moments like this, with a pressure building somewhere low, and her needy and ready form under me. Her hands move along my bare back, running over the thin strap of black before settling on my neck. Mary breaks the kiss, breathing heavy.

"I want you." She whispers in my ear, so I bite hers in response.

"So soon?" Lips move down to her neck. "Dear, we haven't even started." Smiling against her skin, rolling my hips into hers once more, with feeling.

Her hands move to my face, pulling me up so that our eyes can meet.

"No, I want **you**." With such intensity, with such meaning, and it's almost too much for me to wrap my head around. Thoughts tend to blur, so I'm slow to react as she kisses me again, deliberate and sure, her touch scorching fire along my chest, and my back arches into her touch without my permission.

I'm getting lost.

She breaks the kiss, and I see her head dip lower.

I know better than this.

I feel my eyes closing as her lips suck and pull at the skin of my neck.

No.

It's not supposed to be like this. This isn't about her getting any control. That's never what this is about.

"Stop." I say, my voice weaker than I would have liked.

"Why?" The vibration of her voice is felt, mumbled against my skin. Her hands start to pull the strap of my bra down my shoulder. And when I feel her teeth nip at my collar bone, I shake myself out of the haze she's put me in, jerking away and pushing her back onto the bed harshly.

She looks up at me, confused and a little angry.

"Why?" She repeats, raising slightly off the bed when she leans on her elbows.

"Because that's not what we do." It's **me** who breaks down her defenses, **me** who tears her apart, and she gets no part of it. But she's trying to get inside my head—I know she is—trying rip away the only control I have left. No. **No**. She has no right, no standing when it comes to this volatile dance we do. Oh, but Snow White, she's devious, she's a liar. I know she is. She planned this, she was so eager—so willing when she walked in the door, that it made my head swim right on schedule. I should have seen it. I should have known—

"You've let me before." Her attempts continue after we both consider my words.

"I'm not stupid enough to make that mistake again." Because it was, one moment of weakness a long time ago. "This is one time where you don't get to win."

"Did you ever think that maybe this isn't some kind of game to me? That I'm not constantly trying to get the upper hand, and maybe I just want you? As sick and wrong as it is, you—" She pauses and swallows hard, sitting up and bringing her face closer to mine as I'm still straddling her thighs. "…you're the first thing I've ever known." Then the anger flashes in her eyes again. "**You** made sure of that. **You** started this…" Her head goes down for a moment and I feel more than see her hands rest gently on my legs. "I don't want to win, Regina. I just want you."

She says it like it's the easiest thing in the world to say, and that's the way she lies, because she can say something like that—with **such** conviction—and be willing to sacrifice nothing for it. She can say that and go back to them—to **him**, back to her happily ever after and be none the worse for it. And I'm left here with this hate and insanity, and it's all her fault.

I feel the sting of tears well up in my eyes, and I blink them away when her face softens at the sight of it.

**No**.

"You're good at that." I break the silence with a dark voice. "Faking compassion, pretending like your intentions aren't as selfish as everyone else's." She all but rolls her eyes at me, her head turning away, so I grab her chin, forcing her to look at me—and all I see in her green eyes is stubborn defiance. She's mad that her little ploy doesn't work on me. It never does. "You want to control me just as much as I want to control you. You want me broken and begging for redemption."

"That's not true—"

I interrupt her, because she had her chance to talk.

"You put a pretty face on a promise of goodness, and they're all down on their knees for you. I wonder where you learned that from?" My nails dig into her cheeks, causing her to grab my wrist, pulling enough so that she can respond—red shining in her eyes.

"You were quite good at breaking down the defenses of a sixteen year old girl. I wonder where you learned that from?" Her implication isn't vague. It makes a heat burn at my cheeks and anger boiling my blood, to overcompensate for the vulnerability that her words bring. I forget, sometimes—…I forget that she knows me just as well as I know her.

She pushes my hand away from her.

I slap her across the face, hard.

There's a choking gasp that breaks out of her lungs as her face stays to the side for a moment, eyes wide and jaw opening and closing a few times to push the sting away. At the sight is an irrational fear that grips me for a split second, one that's so old, I had forgotten it was ever there to begin with. A fear of consequences that no longer apply, as if I had just striked the daughter of King Leon, as if I was a newly made queen and violent thoughts of a ten year old princess were acted out, and it would only take a word from her to have her guards coming for my head.

I scramble off of her, and off the bed, the distance causing a cold chill to run through me and it pushes away thoughts brought on by my madness. She watches me though, sees the momentary fear and latches onto it like a leach.

"What's wrong?" Mary's voice is raw, and my face is steeled when I move around the bed grabbing her cloths.

"What isn't?" I mumble, throwing her shirt and pants at her, and she catches them easily. My hand motions toward her, the slightest of purple haze collecting in its wake, as I quickly erase the very few marks that I managed to make, the brightest being a growing red streak above her jawline.

"Get dressed, and get the hell out." My words are angry and cold, and I leave the room before she sees that I'm shaking.

Sometimes we talk, and it never ends well.


	6. More Than Anything

AN: After looking over the outline I have for this story, I've realized that I should have named this fic; Snow Queen Sexy Times, because it's approximately 99% sex. And this chapter is 100% sex. I can't imagine you guys mind too much, but I thought I'd share that. I was going to have this chapter be more light hearted than what it turned out as, but the angst took over as it always does, besides light fluff doesn't go well with Snow Queen, in my opinion. Also, I've had more than a few of you ask if I'll be adding a flashback chapter of pre-curse FTL. I will, but it will be towards the end of the story. I hope you guys like the chapter. Feedback is love.

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More Than Anything

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It's been days, almost weeks, and I was fine. I found ways to keep myself busy, and to keep myself away from her. A few lunches with Henry, and a couple of tense but uneventful encounters with the town's people, and I was convinced of it. I could leave her be, and just focus on being a mother to Henry, because he's all I need. He's enough.

He could be.

If it wasn't for her.

If she was dead.

Then the voices started coming back, the loud bass of whispering that I've heard for so long—ever since I knew **her**. It tells me what I've always known, that it's never enough, because everything that has happened, every life taken and curse enacted, has been in her name. And every time I think I'm strong, every time I think that I can pull myself out of this brackish colored pool of madness, she's holding me under.

And it whispers me reminders of memories or dreams, telling me that it's her fault. She made me what I am, and nothing can fix what's already broken. Not apples, not Storybrooke, not Henry. The only thing you can do, dear, is break her.

And I can do that.

I was fine, and now I'm tying her wrists to my headboard with one of my scarves.

She's squirming under me, naked and wet, and not saying a word. As if—as if she would let me do this, and anything else—if I merely wished for it. Not eager, but complacent, because this is where we belong.

"It's going to destroy us, you know—this thing we do." Mary finally says, and I tighten the knot on her crossed wrists, causing her to flinch after her hesitant words.

"As long as you're part of that destruction dear, then I'm fine with it." I smile down at her, but even I can tell that it doesn't reach my eyes.

"Why do you need it so much?" She whispers, sincere, but her stare breaks away from me. She wants this, I think the distance between us lately caused some voices of her own, but there's still fear and anger from our last encounter, and it makes her hesitant.

"Why do you?" My hand trails down her arm lightly, and moves to cup her pristine cheek, causing her to flinch as if I would strike her again. That's not my intention though,

"Not tonight." I whisper, causing her eyes to meet mine. "Fear my wrath tomorrow." The words are meant to sooth her, and they work, with the way she relaxes slowly under my touch—fear turning back into lust as easily as anything could be between us.

Our lips meet and our dance starts, just like every time before, my hands moving over her chest, as I settle over her body. Her arms twist and turn a little above me, trying to adjust to the new and awkward position I've put her in. She wants to grab at me or the sheets, and we just started, but already I feel her frustration. It's a fitting punishment.

Mary's mouth breaks away from mine, breathing heavy. "If you—…I won't touch you. You don't have to keep my hands tied." She tries for sincerity through her gasped whisper, but I shush her all the same, because this isn't something I'll be negotiating, as I trail my teeth down her neck, her body rocking into mine in such a way—and there it is. That building pressure inside me that she always causes, that I can never satisfy.

There's a whimper of protest that comes from her as I lift myself off of her, and stand next to the bed. I calmly lift my hands and start to unbutton my white blouse that already has her scent on it. As they come open, one by one, she watches me with such an intensity.

Her eyes on my body is nothing new, always having an affinity for a straying glance. Before she even knew what kind of damage I could do to her, before she knew what the tension between us even meant—her gaze would fall lower than it should, tracing the outline of plunging necklines and tight dresses. A shaky balance between insecure envy and a naïve lust. That's not how she's looking at me now, though. Now eyes scan over me with maturity and a hunger that holds no uncertainty. With that look stabbing into me, and the pause it gives, I know, now more than ever, that pretending to her that she doesn't affect me is futile. I got away with that for a while, but it only took one mistake—a long time ago—to make the control I held onto so tightly to slip and shift out of my hands. But I adapt, and so now I just found a way to use it against her.

After the last button is done, I slide the silk material off my shoulders.

"You know," I start with a conversational tone. "I was thinking about what you said the last time, and perhaps your intentions are selfless," My fingers reach around to the zipper on the back of my skirt, sliding that down and off as well. "Perhaps you just feel that it's unfair, being the only one to get pleasure out of this." She's barely listening, I can tell, with the way her dilated pupils are following my movements. Leaving the purple and black lace underwear on, I climb back on the bed, sitting up as I straddle her hips.

"I've just been so wound up lately, so **tense**," My body rocks into her core, causing her eyes to flutter and look up at me. "And I need a little release. Can you help me with that?"

"Yes." She replies instantly, because I have her attention now.

Now I smirk, feeling a little more like myself, or whatever I am when I'm with her. It must be me though, because she's always here, even when she's not. That loud whispering voice in my head carries a tone that is far too similar to hers. I could be different though, if it wasn't for her.

"I bet you can…" A chuckle lines my words, while I fall back down on top of her, our faces close. One hand reaches up and fingers trace her lips. She swipes her tongue out quickly, and I feel it like electricity crackling into the pad of my thumb. I hum a bit in approval, before locking my sight on hers again. "But I think it will be much more fun if I just take care of my problem by myself. And you can lie there and watch."

I'm smiling now, dark and lopsided, as her faces falls a bit, starting to foresee the plans for tonight.

"Regina—" Her voice has a tone of warning that is entirely inappropriate for the current state that she's in. It makes me angry almost immediately, but I push it back, like bile in my throat.

"Hush now, dear." I keep my voice calm and soothing, even though I hate it, because it's too much like the words I was raised on, with such potential violence hidden behind the softest of voices. Push it back. "I would hate to have to gag you too." Her eyes narrow after I tap her nose playfully with my forefinger, then rest it under her chin to tilt her head up, making the tendons in her neck strain. I can see her swallowing and breathing. I can see her pulse. God, there's no reason why that should turn me on as much as it does. Just the thought of sinking my teeth into her veins, and ripping out her throat is far too appealing.

Red is such a beautiful color on Snow White.

My lips kiss lightly on her pulse point, then get greedier, sucking and biting, hands pushing against her chest as nails scrape along it's peaks. I move my body against hers, the thin layer of material between us feeling like nothing, as heat and moisture collects between our legs. It burning me alive and drowning me all at the same time. The soft noises coming from the throat I'm ravishing causes me lose my focus, and I try to keep the determination through the haze, trying to tell myself that this was a good idea.

I break away from her neck and take a moment to look at the crimson marks that have surfaced, before moving my lips to her ear.

"How would like me to do it, Snow?" My whisper is thick with lust, and it causes her to swallow hard. "Do you want me to stay like this, and **grind** down on you," I enunciate my words with my hips, and she matches me each time. "**Over** and **over**, harder and faster until we both come?"

Mary moans in my ear, pressing her cheek against mine. "Yes. That—do that—"

I raise my head to look in her eyes. "Or would you like me to kneel over that pretty face of yours?" The back of my knuckles trace her jaw line, then two fingers move to her lips, pushing gently, and she accepts them into her mouth eagerly. "Have you under me, pleasuring me like a good servant does for her queen." She sucks harder at my words, then I'm pulling my hand away from her and start to trace my wet fingers down, along the valley between her breasts. "Do you want know what true royalty tastes like?"

"Please, my Queen…" Arousal at her term of endearment causes my eyes to flutter. My hand moves down between her legs, rising my body up a little to give me room to maneuver.

"Maybe you would like to see me use my fingers. You could watch them slide in and out, and you could see how wet I get for you." She does watch, eyes intent on seeing my fingers slide **so** easily along her folds. She jerks against me when I brush along her clit. "So wet, I could probably start off with three. Stretch myself out just for you, would you like that?" Then I'm inside her, just one finger, just to tease.

"Yes." She practically cries out through a moan. "Please, anything—"

I kiss her hard, cutting off her pleas, moving my hand slowly against her. When I break away, I place myself back against her ear.

"If you're as depraved as you act, I could get some…toys." My dark whisper causes her to stop breathing, then her response is barely audible.

"What?"

"You could push it inside me with your hips as I ride you, like the obedient pet you are." I add another finger and move faster, and she throws her head back. "And when I finish all over it, I'll use it on you, and it will go in so nice and easy, because I'll still be dripping off of it." She curses in the midst of an impending climax. Actually **curses**, and I can't remember ever hearing her do that. I smile, thinking I must be a bad influence. I'm quick to slow my pace before she reaches her end, causing her moans to turn into a frustrated whimper.

"You're killing me."

I wish.

"There are worse ways to go." My fingers are soaked as I pull them out of her. Mary gasps at the loss, looking down at me.

"Untie me, please." I rise up to look at her. "I'll be good, I will—I swear—Let me…" Her quick and desperate words trail off as she watches me move the still wet fingers under the thin lace of my underwear, sliding them easily inside me.

I take a shaky breath.

"Let you, what?"

Her eyes meet mine, and it causes my hips to start moving against my hand. I see the strained muscles in her arms, tensed against the binds that tie them.

"Let me show you how good I can be."

Oh my, so serious when she says it. So strong. It almost makes me want to laugh.

"I've already seen all the good you could be, Snow." My teeth snag on her bottom lip, biting and pulling, before I sit up. The back of my hand pushes lightly against her core as it moves inside of me, faster and deeper. My back is arching as my free hand moves over my chest, showing off a bit. I bit my lip and moan, watching her watch me.

"But I don't want—" I push my hips into hers roughly, but only once, having her squirm under the sensation. "—**you** to feel good."

Because this isn't about her. It's about me breaking her—destroying her—hurting her—…it's always been about her.

She pulls hard once on the tight binds, causing the head board to slam back against the wall hard. "Let me touch you."

I give her a toothy grin.

"Never." Hurt and anger shoot across her face quick. "You stay right there and watch." My breath hitches, and my tone becomes scattered. "Do you want me?"

Fingers move faster against my clit, giving up the show for the end result, my mind blurring delightfully as my stomach tenses.

"Yes." Mary whispers as I fall back over her, my face moving close and cutting off her view, but she's not too concerned as my lips graze hers. I pull away as she moves forward, not gaining or losing any distance between us.

"More than happiness?" My voice is thick with emotion as I whisper, "More than Charming?" There's the green in her eyes that makes me feel like drowning,

Deeper,

And faster,

Fingers sliding,

Lips wet from our shared breathing,

I'm close—

"More than anything."

The sound hits my ear, and I crash against her lips as the waves crash inside me, my body tensing and shaking slightly. I hear the most desperate moan escape from between us, and it's mortifying when I realize that it came from me.

My body collapses next to her, head leaning on her arm as mine lands across her stomach. I take a moment just to feel the erratic rise and fall of her chest, her skin hot and scorching against my fingertips.

"I hate you." She says once my breathing has steadied, and I chuckle lightly at her ferocious tone.

"Sure you do." I murmur, a smile lining my lips, as my body is still basking in an afterglow that's fading fast.

"Untie me." There's frustration and indignation, with just the hint of a pout as Mary gives me the order, causing me to look at her and I blink a few times to dismiss the weight that my eyelids have gained.

"Poor Snow, did you not get what you wanted?" I match her pout and my voice is high and mocking, making her anger burn brighter. I'm the only one who never gave this spoiled princess what she wanted. With my body resting against hers, my fingers start to trail down her chest, tracing her breasts then her hardened nipples, and her breathing is quick to go shallow as she arches into my touch. A dark and devious smile creeps up on my face. "I know what you want." I say it as if I just found out a secret, my nails moving lower to circle her navel.

Then my body starts to follow suit, moving down, lips tasting the faint salt of her skin as I kiss the muscles of her abdomen. I settle between her legs, hooking her calf over my shoulder and feeling her heel dig lightly into my back. My breath is faint against her folds, but so very close, when I look back up at her.

"Do you still want me to untie you?"

"No." She whispers, all fight drained out of her in lieu of something more pleasant, as her hips lift up and try to meet my mouth.

"Good girl." I hold her down, fingers digging into her hip bone, as my tongue runs up the length of her, Mary's body jerking and tensing at the feeling. Another deliberate stroke that lasts longer, collecting moisture in my mouth before sucking lightly on her hooded pearl. She moans deeply at that, and I had every intention of going slow, and dragging out her torment, but the taste of her causes such a **hunger**, and the way—the way she just **melts** against my mouth—

Well, slow is overrated.

My tongue moves faster, as her body twists and bucks, pleading compliments falling off her lips. And oh, how quick she is to come, barely having enough time for me to add a finger inside her before she's clenching around it. I keep going all the same, letting her ride it for as long as her body allows, until she's raw and twitching against my mouth. Her eyes are hooded and gazing down at me, while I crawl back up her body, kissing her deeply, so that the taste of her lingers on Mary's lips even after she leaves. As she moans in my mouth, my hand reaches up and deftly undoes the knot tying her wrists. I half expect her hands on me in an instant, but they just fall limply to her sides, sore and exhausted. We pull away from each other to breath, heavy and broken.

"Sooner or later," I whisper, a dark gaze meeting her unfocused eyes. "I **will** kill you."

"Not tonight." Is her only response, closing her eyes briefly as she breaths in deep and calmly. My face softens at the words I spoke earlier, and I lie down next her, on my back and head facing the curtain covered window of my bedroom.

"No, dear, not tonight." I murmur, briefly feeling the back of my knuckles graze hers, as we lie side by side on the bed. I hear the faint sounds of birds outside, clamoring about as they prepare for the sun to start its ascent. "But tomorrow isn't far off."


	7. Selective Memory

AN: I did something stupid, and decided to get inspiration for another story while I was writing this one. So I got distracted by something shiny, and a.d.d. really sucks. So, sorry for the delay, but I hope you guys enjoy the chapter. Leave me some feedback if you can. :)

* * *

Selective Memory

* * *

I lie in bed alone, willing a sleep I know won't come.

Thinking about things I should forget.

Pictures of myself sitting on a throne in an empty castle, covered in darkness. Snow White is at my feet, on her knees, and I have a heeled boot digging into her shoulder as her hand snakes up my leg and under my dress. She's covered in all white, like a beacon shining through the night.

Just dreams. Or memories. Maybe neither or both, but either way it isn't real.

It's never real with her, and I need to stop. I will—I could stop—

{ you can't stop. }

And then the voices. I close my eyes tight to the whispering, try to clear my mind, an effort to control it before it gets too loud.

{ you can't stop anything. Not Daniel dying, not Snow living, not the curse breaking—Because you're nothing. Neither Queen nor peasant, you are a pawn. You are in the Ogres den. You are theirs, and that is all you will be. }

I don't move, my body still, trying to focus on the soft sound of fan blades from my bedroom ceiling.

{ you belong to the heartless women who raised you. }

{ you belong to the nameless man who trained you. }

{ you belong to blameless girl who controls you. }

My eyes open.

{ oh and she does, doesn't she? All your darkness—all your **sickness**—has been for her, has it not? And it is, you know, it is sickness. }

The memories I choose to have are selective. Though, I don't seem to get that luxury when there's pounding reminders inside my head as the rest of the world falls silent.

{ at first you just wanted to break her, just a little, just so you could see more of yourself in her. Then, you just wanted to touch her. Just a brief stroke of hair, of soft white skin, just to see if anything good could sink through to your blackened heart. It didn't work though, and her smile only grew brighter and your mind only grew darker. So you wanted to fuck her. Violate her. Rape her. You wanted pain and blood and screaming—and **that** would satisfy you. But she was too strong for such darkness, and you too weak for such violence, so your vicious words were muted by your fear. Your wicked hands slowed by her need. And you kissed her because she asked for it, begged you, and you did just what she said. Just as everyone always does. }

Just let me sleep. God, just for a little while. I've exhausted my liquor, and my pills, and my body, so just let my mind die for a little while.

{ so then you wanted to kill her. }

{ but she kills you first. }

My hands bunch up in fists, and I turn my head into the pillow next to me, ready to scream into it with everything I have, but once my lungs fill with air—all I can smell is her. My eyes close as I press my cheek against the soft cotton and take another breath. I lick my lips and think about how pretty the colors will be when I burn this pillow in the morning.

{ she makes you so weak, with just the sight of green in her eyes, with just the promise of suffering that she could provide. }

I lie straight again, head moving back to face the ceiling, as the whispering shifts and changes, taking on a voice that sounds so much like hers.

{ is that what I'm doing, Regina? Am I suffering? As you sit here with those memories you aren't even sure are real. Perhaps this was never your plan at all. Perhaps I just enjoy seeing you destroy yourself through your madness. }

"Shut up." I finally say to absolutely no one. Just a dark an empty room with all there is to mock me are the four walls. I know, I do, that the only thing torturing me is my cracked psyche, but it's hard to hold onto—to grasp—because I **swear** I can see her now, hovering over me in bed. Like a ghost with long hair, in all white, and a sneer that's more mine then it is hers.

{ perhaps I should kill you. And would you even fight it, **dear**? If it meant an end to this, and to all the pain I cause you. If it meant an end to the pain you cause others, because of your sick addiction. }

I see more then feel her hand go around my neck.

{ would you welcome it willingly, as I squeeze the air out of your lungs, would you use your last breath to say; }

{ thank you, my Queen? }

* * *

Last night was not fun. Going on practically no sleep, I'm spending hours in the mirror, trying to fix my appearance, trying to make myself look somewhat presentable. But I still see cracks in the foundation—flaws under the lipstick. I realize, not for the first time, that I'm aging. The curse stopped it, but now, a restless night sleep makes the dark circles under my eyes linger. The long days spent in this house makes my face paler, and I wonder how long it will take before my skin just cracks away, flaking off my bones and flying away into the wind.

The magic helps. Or it makes it worse. It can fix any flaws I see on my physical body, but it takes energy away from me, and I have none to spare.

I need to see her.

That's all I know for sure, all I ever seem to know, so without preamble; I find myself outside her apartment door. After a moment of collecting my thoughts and clearing my mind, I knock twice.

Finally, after a long silence, she answers before my nerves get the best of me.

Immediately I feel my blood heating up at the sight of her, already it's late morning, and she's still wearing comically decorated pajama pants and an oversized blue t-shirt, the material thin and worn. It doesn't take but a second glance to notice that's she's not wearing a bra. It's a stark contrast to my professional red dress and black blazer. My unashamed view of her gets distracted by her wide eyes and scared expression.

"Regina? You can't be here." Mary says in a hurried hush, looking behind me for nosy neighbors.

My smirk doesn't waiver.

"Sure I can." She doesn't fight it when I let myself inside, closing the door behind me, preferring that I don't make any kind of scene out in the hallway. "Henry is gone camping with that idiot you married, and Emma is off at work, saving the world from drunk and disorderlies." I did my research before making this impromptu visit, because I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid. "Leaving innocent little Snow White all alone. Whatever shall we do to fill the time?" My hand moves to her cheek, nails trailing the length of her neck, watching goose bumps rise in their wake.

"No." Mary shakes her head and tries to look away. "Absolutely not."

I grip her jaw tightly, pulling her face close to mine with a sneer.

"I'll be quick." Because I just need a little, just to get by, just anything fast and painful—just so I can feel something.

"No, not here." She whispers, pleading and demanding all at the same time. "I mean it."

And her words are easily ignored. That's not what gives me pause before my lips descend on her. It's the sight of green in her eyes, with just the promise of suffering that she could provide. And more than her death, I've come to realize, I need her suffering. Perhaps I am weak. Perhaps at this moment, I couldn't care less.

"I missed you." I whisper against her lips, not very convincingly, almost taking on a mocking sound, but she hesitates at the words and not the tone. She moves back a little to look in my eyes.

"Really?" There's almost hope in her voice through all that suspicion, and I move my hand to rake my nails up the back of her neck and grab a fistful of her short hair.

"Something fierce." I hiss at her before crashing my lips against ones that suddenly seem so willing.

My blazer hits the ground before I realize that she pulled it off my shoulders, then my arms are around her waist, pulling her into me. I'm pushing her back farther into the open space of her apartment, until the edge of the dining room table stops us. Then we finally break away, breath heavy as my lips move down to her neck.

No marks, I tell myself. It would take energy to heal them afterwards, and I have none to spare. Just enough for this—for something quick. I tear myself away from her, taking her hands and pull her away from the table, walking backwards, but she doesn't budge from her spot, looking at me confused.

"Bedroom." I clarify, but there's something about that idea that she doesn't like, letting go of my hands and wrapping her arms around her stomach.

"Is that why you came here? You want to take me in our bed?" **Our** bed. And just that word; **our**. It fills me with a frenzied jealousy and excitement all at the same time. Just thinking about all the things he's done to her in the bed that's just out of my line of sight. Just thinking about all the hushed whispers of affection, the slow and careful way he makes love to her, as if not to hurt her—as if hurting her was even that easy to do. Just thinking about his scent that's all over her and **their** bed, and just thinking about how quickly I could shift it's tone to something dark and broken, and knowing that **theirs** could be **mine**. Conflicting emotions finally win out as a smile appears on my face.

Suddenly my quick fix turns into a long torment, just thinking about all the things I could do to her in that bed. Terrible things.

"Come on, princess." A sickly sweet sound rises out of my voice. "It will give you something to remember, when you pretend that what he does to you feels good."

"Not there." She's stern when she says it, but it's okay, because a part of me knew she wouldn't give in so easily. Too bad for her that I've always been good at breaking her down.

My eyes move up and down her body like a predator, getting ready for our game to begin. This violently dangerous foreplay that either has her begging for more, or pleading for me to stop. I take a few steps towards her, and she moves back slightly, my face not even trying to hide all my dark intentions.

"You know, it's barely decent, answering the door like this." Again I take in her thinly clothed appearance, how comfortable she's become in this world—in this small town—all semblance of royalty melting away in lei of domestically. "Honestly, dear, how do you expect one to react?" Another step towards her and the back of my hands move up to brush against her chest, her hardened nipples from the cool air of the apartment pebble tighter against the movement. Mary gasps and flinches from the sensitivity it causes, and she's pushed against the table once more. I take her hand and look at it curiously, finger tips brushing over her knuckles as I lower my face close to hers. "Is this what you do? You wait for them to leave so you can close your eyes," I move my lips to her ear, my tone a sickly hush. "And hear me whispering in your ear," I pull her arm up to my shoulder, and she's quick to accept the gift, running her fingers along the nape of my neck and through my hair, as my other hand moves down between her legs, pushing against her pants crudely, and feeling such heat already. "Telling you who you really are," I push my palm into her. "Making you shake," And she does. "And moan." She does that as well. I push again, then again, then she starts pushing back. "Oh, you're so **good** for them, it must be exhausting," My voice starts out as a purr, but then starts to shift into something more menacing. "That must be why you act like such a **whore** with me." I move my hand up slightly, to linger at the waistband of her pants, not having to look to already know she's soaked through. "Were you missing me too? Were you touching yourself?" My face moves in front of hers again.

"No." She barely denies, face flushing. Stubborn girl. It makes my eyes darken, glancing briefly at her fingers that are now tracing my jaw.

"I can smell it on you." Her eyes look to the ground, and she pulls her hand down and away from me. My fingers trace the skin below her navel for a moment before dipping underneath her underwear, and moving deftly through her folds. "I know he doesn't get you this wet." As quickly as I'm there, I pull back, presenting my two soaked fingers to her, looking at them for a moment as they linger between our faces. "All for me, isn't that right?" Then they disappear in my mouth, as I watch her watch me, and I'm almost able to suppress the soft moan that comes from my lips as I suck them dry. Her eyes flutter slowly at the sight, before I release them. "And you love every minute of it. You always have, even in the beginning." My hands move under her shirt, lightly grazing skin as I feel the muscles in her stomach twitch. "Do you remember, Snow? How desperate you were, just to have me brush against you in passing?" I trace the swell of her breasts with my nails. "Do you remember all that time you spent in the convent, praying for a way to stop those thoughts?" I avoid her need, and aching nipples that I can see clearly through her shirt, moving farther up to scrape along her collar bone. "Skin pure as the driven snow, but oh what a **dirty** mind."

With that, my palms cover her breasts, pushing hard and squeezing, making Mary groan deep from her chest, feeling it vibrate against my hands as she arches into the feeling. Mary's breathing heavy, as I work her over with my words more than my hands. The memories we share, however false or far between they may be, are affecting her quickly—bringing her back to a time when this was all we were. She's unsure and quiet—wide eyed and submissive—and practically hyperventilating as every nerve inside her is burned, leading way to a virgin-like sensitivity.

"Just admit it." My teeth are bared in a twisted sort of smile, before I pull away and turn her body around in my arms quickly. Mary gasps as I bring her back against me, my head resting in the crook of her neck while hands are roaming over such sinful curves. And those curves—they always did give me pause. "Admit your impurity," I whisper, teeth scraping lightly at the skin behind her ear. "The way your sight would scan over me at dinners, and the view would turn your cheeks into such a shade of pink." The tone in my voice is changing into something familiar to the both of us, along with the memories behind our eyes. "Those restless nights when your racing mind wouldn't calm the heat inside you. I did have a magic mirror, dear, and you did have a tendency to be loud." Fingers move under her shirt, and my nails roam along the dip above her hips, almost hard enough to leave a mark.

"You're disgusting." She murmurs against me, shaking slightly. I pull her harder against me.

"You're a tease. You always have been. Dukes and nobles would drool at your feet, and you would smile and laugh, but ignore them all the same." Ballrooms and castles, courtyards and bedchambers. She's there with me, and I close my eyes to see her more clearly. "Even the guards were brave enough to have their eyes on you. Hardly proper for a princess."

"And out of all of them, yours were on me the most." She turns around in my arms, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Hardly proper for a queen." And the look holds not a single trace of Mary, or Mrs. Charming, but just pure and driven Snow White. She comes back to me like she never left.

I react something fierce to it.

A growl tears its way out of my throat and I grab her hips roughly, digging in my nails as I pull her against me. "And you enjoyed that, didn't you?" My accusation causes her to whimper and bite her bottom lip, bringing my face closer to hers, with a dangerous whisper. "Flaunting yourself in front of me, knowing I couldn't claim you as mine—"

"I am though. I am yours." It's a lie when she says it, just like every time before, though even lies sound beautiful when they come from her lips. But I punish her regardless, claiming her mouth in a ferocious show of passion. This coy child that brings goodness to her entire land—except for me. The only thing she brings me is destruction. She is my end, and I **swear** for the millionth time—but it feels like the first—that I will be her end as well.

It pushes her back, and back, myself in tow, never breaking the kiss until we both fall. We land on soft blankets, and I see her notice where we're at, in her bed—in **their** bed—and it makes her nervous for a moment, knowing that we ended up right where I wanted us. But I don't much care anymore, giving up the reality of this world, for the memory of another. I kiss her with purpose, breaking away her inhibitions, and soon enough there's fingers in my hair, and I allow for it. Somehow my intentions of exploiting her guilt are no longer important, and all I see is her lying under me, like it used to be, before the curse, before Charming, and it almost seems as if this is where I wanted us.

Her cloths barely come off, just pushed aside and maneuvered around. She has a hand pushing against my back as it moves down my spine, her other arm trapped under me while I lie over her, our legs wrapped together. My fingers replaced my thigh some time ago, and I watch her intently, relishing in each expression of pleasure and pain.

"That—" A moan breaks up her words with a twist of my wrist, but she gathers her bearings once more, staring at me deeply. "That first time you came to my room." I slow my movements slightly, my interest peaking. "I was…" She swallows as her cheeks grow flushed. "Thinking of you." That makes me smile, her sudden bashfulness, remembering that she was doing a bit more than just thinking of me. I dip my head down to her neck, kissing the soft skin I've found.

"Were you now?" My murmur lingers on her pulse point.

"Did you know? Is that why you came to my room when you did?" Mary's voice is raw and hitching in time with my strokes. "Could you see me?" She finally whispers, and I hesitate in answering her, unsure of her reaction. Finally, my lips are against her ear.

"Yes."

She groans and I add a third finger inside of her, stretching her as I speed up my movements.

"I was still burning up inside, and you stood so close to me—you…" It's getting harder for her to talk, my teeth pulling at her earlobe. "It was just too much…"

"And it did burn, the heat I felt as I ran my hand up your thigh." I lose myself in the memory for a moment, and I know she's close. "It was all for me."

"Always." The word is forced out right before her body tenses and shakes around my fingers. I linger for a moment before pulling my hand away from her, and it isn't until I hear the choked sob come from her throat do I notice the tears welling in her eyes. She tries to turn away from me, but I don't let her, my hand firm on her hip as she starts crying.

"God, it hurts." She says, broken and pained, as if she was burning alive from the inside. Almost as if the cloud surrounding us finally breaks against our fantasy and the golden slivers of reality shine right into her eyes. And something like that, something so bright and hot, something that shows such clarity on our clouded foolishness, on our weakness—something like that would hurt.

I move up to wipe at the stream of tears streaking her face, in an odd show of compassion, before whispering back;

"Always."


	8. This Shared Insanity

AN: Well, I decided to go over my outline again and flesh out some parts, add a few things here and there, so I got a little preoccupied. The next few chapters are going to be a little shorter, but there won't be much of a wait between them. I hope you guys like it. :) Enjoy, and feedback is love!

* * *

This Shared Insanity

* * *

She's quiet this time, barely saying a word, and it bothers me more than usual. I push in all the right places—my lips pulling at her neck—hips pinning hers against the wall, and it barely elicits a whimper out of her.

Stubborn. So damned stubborn, and she always has been.

Now is no exception, because just when I think that I've got her in a place where she's mine—just when I think that she'd do anything I'd ask if only for an arrogant smirk and a dark look, she shows me how wrong I am.

But dammit Snow, don't do this now.

It's not enough.

{ it will never be enough.}

Then the voices.

Don't do this **now**. I need a distraction. I need her. Just give me something—

"Say something." My whisper is wet against her ear and it grounds me like an anvil, because I didn't mean to say that out loud.

"We can't keep doing this." She replies, voice void of emotion, and it causes me to freeze. I don't dare move from the comfort of her neck, taking a moment for a few steadying breaths.

"Sure we can." I reply, my tone deceptively soothing. My tongue darts out and runs along a tendon above her collar bone and it makes her shudder.

"I mean it." She pushes me away gently, and my eyes narrow as I look at her. I know what this is. The time we spend at her apartment the other day, it lingered. Lingered in a way that was new and terrifying. It was getting too close to a line neither one of us are willing to cross. So, I know—I just won't admit it aloud. "What we're doing—" She goes on to say, "what we **always** do, it isn't…It's not right."

If only this was my favorite song, I could hear it all the time. So, no it's not right, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to stop. Besides, she comes here in the middle of the night, like always, and lets me push against her and pin her to the wall of my living room, just to tell me it's over? I don't think so.

She doesn't get to win.

"This isn't news, dear. We're wrong in every way, but that's what you like about us, isn't it?" It's that darkness, it's the sin, the feeling of exposure that makes her feel so vulnerable, it's all those things inside her that she tries so hard to deny. All those things, including me.

"There's nothing I like about us." Her tone is even, but dangerous. Stubborn. It brings out a frustrated sigh from me, and I close the space between us again, just to have her turn her head to the side, so my lips find residence against her ear as my anger rises.

"If you didn't want this, then you wouldn't be here." I grab her wrists hard as they move up to my shoulders again. "You'd be off living your dream with Prince Charming, and Emma and **my** son." There's a whimper from her as I back away just enough to turn her around, adjusting my grip on her wrists, and slamming her palms on the wall, hands on either side of her head. She uses her arms to lean heavy on the wall, as I don't give her a choice otherwise, my body fitting against her back. "But you're not. You're here, with **me**. So, don't you dare tell me we have to stop, as if this is my fault. This is **your** fault, Snow. It's always been **you**."

At that, Mary stops struggling either from guilt or submission—or possibly there is never a difference with her.

"Is it ever going to be enough?"

Whether it's her speaking, or the voice in my head, I can't decide. But I tell her to shut up none the less, as I my hand down to the waistband of her jeans, undoing them quickly before sliding fingers inside the cotton material and feeling her jerk against the movement.

She's wet. She's pretending like she wants to leave, to walk away like that's even an option anymore—like that was **ever **an option—but she's always so wet for me, like she was made for this. Made for me.

"Regina—" It almost sounds like a sob the way it breaks out of her lungs, and the protest makes me unreasonably angry. Her plea making it seem like she can't stand what this has become—what I've become—and I realized the other day at her apartment, that a large part of what we're doing now is to recreate what we did then. We never can though, but I'm quick to stop the thoughts, moving in a way that causes her hips to move against my hand.

"You don't get to do this." As if I don't know how wrong this is. Parallels and metaphors swimming in my head, and I push it back—and **back**—and **God**, please help me. I move my fingers inside her, and the feeling of her tightening around me helps to push it back, just a little more. "You don't get to act like you have any control here." I should've killed her. No tricks, no magic, just her throat opening up to the end of my dagger. And the blood would flow over the wrong that I've done, and all would be right with the world once more. Why didn't I just kill her? "You don't decide when this is over…" I feel pain pressing against my chest, the kind that only she causes. I hate her for it. "You don't get to leave me."

My voice cracks when I say it.

My body gives way, just a little.

"…Let me look at you." She barely whispers, her voice rough.

"No." There's no cold or harsh tone to the word. I think maybe there should be, to assert dominance, to make her understand—but it just comes out raw, and full of emotions I can't afford to have. And there's no way I can let her look at me now, because I have no idea what she'll see. Though, as one hand is busy making her breathing grow heavy, the other slides along the wall to meet hers. When she feels it, her fingers snag on mine, entwining them together, in some desperate need for connection. The sight makes me shut my eyes tightly, because the only thing that I might hate more than Snow White at this moment, is myself. But I don't stop, because I never stop. I can't **stop**. So I bury my fingers in her deeper, and bury my face in the nape of her neck, and we hold onto the wall together—waiting for this shared insanity to run its course before it leaves us both cold again.


	9. Poison

AN: I was going to merge some of these shorter chapters into a long one, but it they don't flow together well. I'll try to keep posting quickly. :)

* * *

Poison

* * *

She slams me hard against the wall of my bedroom, hard enough for my face to twist in pain, mouth open in a silent cry. Maybe I just wanted a reaction from her—something more than those dead eyes. Because that's all I see from her now. Dead. But I don't want her dead. I want her hurting.

So I said something, something I don't remember now as needles prickle down my spine, but it was something about her mother. Something cruel, and oh how quickly dead turned red. And it should be much more satisfying than it turns out to be.

"You have **no** right to talk about mother's." She practically screams at me, and I push myself off the wall just to have her grab my blouse and push me back. "At least mine loved me." Her voice lowers to a hiss and it causes that distinctive pressure in my chest. My arms rise and knock hers away, pushing her back in kind.

"A lot of good it did her. Loving you is like **poison**." I don't mean for my voice to crack when I say it. But she hears it and her eyes widen alongside the surprise I feel. I cover fast for the indication. "How grateful you must be that Emma could never love you like you loved your mother."

Then there's red again. Her hands move to go around my neck, but I see it coming, blocking her and our arms tangle before I finally grab her wrists harshly.

"And what about Henry?" My face gives a warning at her retort, as my grip on her tightens. "I've been watching him try to run away from you since his first step."

"That's what your blood in their veins does." The anger builds higher and as if to prove my words, I feel my nails go into her skin, crimson swelling into my fingertips. "It makes them run. You ran, Henry ran, Emma ran—Oh, wait—" I make a mock show surprise on my face. "She was abandoned."

"Because of **your** curse." Her eyes water, as she rips her arms away from me, taking a second to absently rub at the red marks I left. "Whose fault is that?"

"Yours. It's always been yours." I hiss dangerously, staring her down a moment and watching the anger in her eyes grow. Then quite suddenly, she's pulling on the back of my neck, crashing her lips against mine violently.

I spin us around quickly, returning the favor by slamming her back against the wall, and when my hand digs into the back of her thigh, it wraps around my hip instantly. We break the kiss and my lips go on her neck, sucking and biting with fervor. This is how I want her—…This is close enough.

"And this, my Queen," Her words are strong but breathless, making me thrust against her and she pushes back at the contact. "Is this my fault too?"

I don't answer her, just pull away far enough to rip her shirt off and over her head. "The way you can wear me down—Make me beg—" My hands move to her chest, causing her to arch into the touch. "How easy it is for you. Is that my doing, or yours?" I kiss her hard and fast before looking back at her.

"It's easy when you're so willing. You're just a whore, waiting to be broken."

One hand moves down her stomach to trace the waistband of her pants, but her words make me stop and pull away from her.

"So break me." It's almost mocking, the way she says it—so smug. As if she knows—of course she **knows**—that I've tried. That's all I've ever tried to do to her, and it doesn't matter how much I hurt her, how deeply I cut her, or how dark the bruises I leave are, she is even more beautiful than when we started.

So beautiful, and so **damn** smug.

I strike her across the face with the back of my hand, no guilt rising up inside me this time. This time, she asked for it. Her body propels with the hit, turning to the side then rocking back against the wall. Mary's hand rises up to her bottom lip, where a line of blood has started to trail. She touches it gingerly, gazing at the red smeared on her fingertips, before her tongue swipes along the cut. The action causes a tightening in my stomach, because red is such a beautiful color on Snow White.

"Is that what it's like, Regina?" Her eyes are on me, hard and accusing. "Is loving me like poison?" The anger on my face falters at that, leaving something raw in its wake. "Does it burn and hurt as it slides down your throat?" Mary's fingers raise to trace my neck down to the collarbone. "And you can't breath—you can't move—all you can do is dream of regrets." The words get more distant, as if she's trying to remember something she can't quite grasp. I pull her close again, my hand wrapping around her short hair.

"My only regret is that I never killed you."

Mary smiles sadly at that, and whispers against my lips before they meet.

"I know the feeling."

Whether she means my death or her own, I don't bother wondering.

Not much can be bothered with right now, as she tears me apart with the passion that her kiss holds. It almost makes me want to slow her pace, soothe her with sweet lies like I used to, but I remember that this is what I wanted. So I give her all that I have, pushing her down onto my bed, striping her of her cloths, and the only other time she speaks is when she's breathless and shaking with me still between her legs.

"This is the last time, Regina I swear—I swear to **God** this is the last time." I don't pay any attention though, because her God has done nothing for me. So our last time makes way for another, and another, as minutes turn to hours in my bed where time means nothing.

And each and every time, she doesn't break, not when she cries out as my hand twists, or when she hisses from my nails scratching down her back, when my teeth run over her chest, when I have nothing left—and she still asks for **more**.

She never breaks. But I feel it—I feel it inside me—It feels like **poison**. Burning and hurting, and I hate it.


	10. Dreams of Regret

AN: Sorry for the long hiatus. I babied this chapter a little too much. I liked it though, it's a little different. Hope you guys enjoy, and please let me know what you think. I love all the awesome feedback I've been getting.

* * *

Dreams of Regret

* * *

This might be a memory.

We've found a place in the woods, a rare clearing in the thick wall of trees that looms over us. Our horses are tied to few trees skirting along the open space we're in. Rocinante next to a white stallion that Snow has chosen for the day. She and I are lying on blankets laid out in the sun of an early afternoon. A lunch sits in the grass next to us that was forgotten in lieu of relaxing in the day's warmth. I'm wearing cloths suited for riding, brown leather pants with a casual and loose cream colored blouse, long brown hair braided down my back.

Which is more than could be said for Snow, donning a pristine white dress fit for no one less than a princess, with a corset that proudly shows off her flawless genetics. I find myself tracing the curve of her cleavage with a single finger, watching the rise and fall of her chest and the contrast of white skin against a darker tone, my hands carrying traces of dirt from the long ride. And how she can look so clean—so flawless, without a single speck of filth on her, remains a mystery to be solved another day.

"What if someone sees us?" She whispers, with a sigh of almost contentment, as my hand loses focus and moves lower.

"No one will, I'll make sure of it." Is my soothing response, inching my face closer to her cheek, lips tracing her jaw.

"If—" Snow swallows at my action. "If someone does, will you fight gallantly to protect my honor?" Her tone is playful, causing a smile to reach my face.

I rise up to look down on her, leaning on my free arm, my other hand draped carelessly around her waist.

"What honor do you have left, dear?" I tease, fingers tracing the pearl buttons running down, then back up her stomach. "Where does it hide? Here?" My hand cups her barely covered breast, squeezing gently, while my thumb moves just under the material of her plunging neckline. There's a slight gasp that breaks from her lungs at the movement. "Or perhaps here?" My arm moves lower, fingers roaming under the thick layers of her dress, finding purchase along the smooth skin of her thighs. "I've scorched my name on your body a hundred times over," I kiss her neck as my hand moves higher, feeling her squirm slightly under me. "So protect your honor? I think not." Snow looks at me then, hurt lining her features, causing a smile to reach mine in response. "I will fight to protect what's mine." I finish, catching her lips in a soft kiss. Her legs twitch against my nails that are running up the inside of her thighs, almost reaching the material of her undergarments.

She's laughing now, pulling away from my lips and stilling my hand with her own. Apparently the only affect I'm having is tickling, so I take another moment to move my fingers again, just to see her smile a little longer.

"Stop." She says, squirming and giggling, and I do, pulling my arm away from her and resting it back on her waist as I smile down at her kindly.

This must be a dream.

This playful banter between us, this feeling of contentment, and this place we've never been to, it's something so calm and peaceful, that I know it isn't real.

We lie next to each other for what seems like forever, her eyes closed against the bright rays of the sun, as mine stay on the perfect curves of her face.

"It's beautiful here." She says in a whisper.

"It certainly is." I respond, never breaking my gaze from her.

Snow looks over at me, eyes heavy, as concern lines her features.

"If I ask you something, do you promise not to be angry with me?"

"Of course." I reply instantly, anger being so far from this place, it's a wonder if I could even remember the feeling. She smiles at that, sitting up suddenly, and I rise with her curiously.

"Prove it." And that challenge—that plea—I know it's something I've heard her say before. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she stands, grabbing my hands in hers and pulling me up with her, and I roll my eyes lightheartedly at her playful manner. Then she starts to back away from me with an unspoken dare, going farther into the clearing.

"Ah, yes. I swear on all the lives of every person who crosses me." There's a haughty dramatic flair to my words, as I mock bow to her, before quickly pouncing towards her retreating form, but she's too quick for me, ducking and smiling, running towards the nearest tree. I follow her, as if it is all that I'm meant to do. "I promise on this land and the next—" When we reach the tree, she hides behind it, her face peeking out from the trunk to see me dart around it in hopes of grabbing her, but she slips from my grasp again. "I pledge to you, dear and only you—my undying oath." Snow zigzags around a few more trees, and I follow at a leisurely distance. "My unrelenting commitment." Then she's moving around the horses, but I see the path she's taking, and move to intercept. "My word is bond, just as the bond that ties us together—" I finally get her in my grasp when she runs toward the clearing again, giving a short laugh in pride of what I've caught. Her smile is soft and beautiful while I have her in my arms, our bodies close.

"Forever and always?" She asks, with whispered sincerity. My hand reaches up and rests on her cheek.

"Forever and always." I respond, with as much intensity that such truth can bring. Then my lips are on her, soft and slow as I take my time to taste every inch of her mouth, noting the strong flavor of apples that engulfs my senses. When we break away, her face has all the love in the world written on it, and there's a pressure in my chest that follows it.

"Ask me anything." I tell her with assurance.

With a sigh, the smile on her face fades.

"Do I look like him?"

The pressure inside me starts to grow.

"Who?" There's just the slightest hint of fear lining my voice.

"Do I look like Daniel?"

I know now what this is. Not a memory. Not a dream. A nightmare.

Magic crackles at my fingertips as I strike my hand deep within her chest. A look of surprise and pain twist her features just like—

"You do now."

There's no certainty that it's even my voice that says it, it's tone sounding familiar but distant. I turn my wrist sharply, just to see her choke on the feeling, tears streaming down her face, and I feel the rapid pulse surrounding my fingers. The wetness and the heat.

When I pull my hand back out, grip firm, her heart isn't glowing with the magic I took it with. It's raw and bloody, and **real**—leaving a gaping hole in her chest. Blood is pooling onto her white dress, as I squeeze the muscle in my hand, and she collapses at my feet.

I don't look down at her. Instead my sight catches our forgotten lunch sitting next to the blankets lying on the ground. In the basket is nothing but rotting apples.

* * *

I wake up in a cold sweat, eyes wide, my body still frozen on the bed as I my brain adjusts to the familiar settings of my bedroom. I don't remember going to sleep, but I'm not surprised that it wasn't restful. It never is. What I am surprised about is the shadow that's next me, and the sound of steady breathing. My body jolts a bit as I turn to see Mary sleeping next to me. And I know this can't be real. It must be in my mind, something lingering from the nightmare, so I slowly pull the covers that she's tangled in lower. Fear grips me, expecting to see an empty hole in her chest, where her heart used to be—but there's nothing. My fingers run gently over her skin, feeling the soft heat of things that are very much real and alive.

I'm remembering now, after we had exhausted all of our energy, and we lied next to each other on my bed, her eyes were growing heavy.

I told her to leave. I swear I did.

Or maybe I just watched the blinks of her green eyes get longer, imagining that if I killed her, it would be like this. Just a slow and peaceful slip into unconsciousness. Nothing violent or painful, like a curse, but something more like a gift.

A heavy sigh escapes me as I turn to look at the clock, grateful that the night is still surrounding us. Then I reach over and push her hard, making her body rock before she jerks awake as well.

"What's wrong?" She mumbles, opening her eyes. Then she looks up at me, then at her surroundings, a panicked expression crossing her face. "What am I doing here?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing." My hand runs through tangled hair as I sit up and try to clear my mind.

"God, what time is it?" Mary's kicking covers off of her, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her back to me as she puts on her underwear and bra, and I watch her with mild interest.

"Early still." The clock reads 3:36 a.m. when she glances at it, and I hear the quick release of relief leave her lungs. She's getting too close to getting caught, and a far too close for comfort to me. "You know I don't condone sleep overs." I try for a biting tone in my voice, but there is none.

Mary glares at me.

"I must have passed out, what with us fighting and screaming at each other all night."

And her voice is rough when she says it, because she's right. Earlier in the night, it was bad. The fight we had still fresh in my mind, but so was the way she came for me, over and over, until her body was raw and shaking.

That was most definitely still fresh in my mind.

"That wasn't the only thing we did to each other." I say knowingly, as I watch her stand and I see the red scratch marks running down her back, and when she turns toward me to grab her shirt that was caught on the end of my bed, I see the bruised scorches peppered on her neck and chest.

"My memory is still intact, despite your best efforts, my Queen." Those words, oh my those words from her do something visceral to me. She knows it too, looking at me sideways with a smirk lining her cut lip, as she pulls her shirt down over her head. When she moves around the bed to my side to pick up her discarded pants, I stop her by digging my fingers into her upper thighs and turning her towards me.

"It's early still." I murmur, looking up at her as my nails trial up to the waistband of her underwear.

"Stop…" Her hands halt me gently, and I feel pressure contracting around my throat at the protest. Irrational thoughts of my dream come back at me like a wave, and I pull away from her before she notices that my hands have started shaking. "I need to go."

"Well I need to get some sleep so you know where the door is." My words are flippant, but instead of lying back down, I stand up from the bed, going over to the closet door to grab my silk robe. The cold that's settled into my skin is somewhat relieved from the material, and I do wonder briefly at what point she managed to get my clothes off, all except for my underwear. I'm feeling her watch my movements.

"Are you getting forgetful now?" Mary finally says, a little angry, causing me to pause with my back facing her. Then I turn, confused.

"What?"

"My marks?"

Right. There are plenty of those to be had.

"Of course, dear." I say as a sigh, never looking forward to this part. It takes a lot out of me, the magic I use for this, and at this point I wonder if it's even worth leaving the bruises and bite marks at all. But that's only to avoid the more important question of why I even bother to cover them. Why I let her lay down the rules for what we do and how we do it. Why am I protecting her reputation, when she would—without hesitation—string me up if it meant keeping her secrets.

I'm tired though, so such thoughts remain avoided as I close the space between us, moving my hand over superficial brandings, both exposed and covered by her cloths, watching along with her as they each disappear one by one, just like always.

Then she's perfect again, just like always.

"Do you miss them when they're gone?" Not knowing where that came from, it's asked none the less, and she contemplates her answer.

"I wouldn't use that word." She says finally. "I…ache for them."

And **that** word. That **ache**. That's accurate.

"I know the feeling." It's a whispered response.

My hand goes up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing the once cut lip, and before I think better of it, I lean in to meet her lips with my own. I try to kiss her soft and slow, like in my dream, to see if such a perfect moment could ever exist between us, but it doesn't taste the same—it doesn't feel right—and all it reminds me of is the gaping hole in her chest that follows a kiss like this. My lips jerk back from hers harshly, and her eyes flutter open, looking dizzied in the wake of faux tenderness on my part. My lungs are working to deepen my breath from its shallow state, and there's hesitation on my part that's lasting too long as creases grow in Mary's forehead.

"Go." My voice finally gives way to a raw and broken demand.

After a moment longer, she finally does.


End file.
